


to Suppress Devotion

by SageMasterofSass



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, I'm a bit unsure about this fic honestly???, M/M, Silver finally allowing himself to be taken care of, Sorry Muldoon is still dead, Unusually caring and gentle Flint, graphic description of a wound, it's not that bad but its still there, we'll see how everyone else likes it tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 19:02:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5882026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SageMasterofSass/pseuds/SageMasterofSass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Except, it’s not Muldoon’s face that he sees, floating pale and ghostly in the water.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to Suppress Devotion

**Author's Note:**

> THE ANGST OF MULDOON'S DEATH WAS SO STRONG I DECIDED I NEEDED TO MAKE IT WORSE. And then promptly throw shameless fluff at Silver. 
> 
> You're welcome.
> 
> (tbh tho, not entirely sure I'm happy with how this turned out :/ )

The water drags at his clothes, makes them heavy and thick even as they cling uncomfortably to his skin. He sways with its pull, fingers locked tight around coarse rope. Around him the ship screams its anguish, wood protesting loudly as it’s relentlessly pounded by the storm and waves, the steady slap of water against its hull, the wind pitching it one way and then the other the way a child tosses a plaything.

Déjà vu rings loudly in Silver’s ears as he blinks dumbly at the scene around him. He’s facing the stairs, the hatch still closed tight above him as nobody has yet to open it, and behind him…

Silver turns slowly, relying on his strong grip on the rope, because underwater his prosthetic leg is even more useless than when it’s on dry land. He doesn’t want to look, not really, because he knows exactly what he’s going to see: the heavy metal cannons pressed against the bulkhead, and trapped between the two…

Except, it’s not Muldoon’s face that he sees, floating pale and ghostly in the water, arms outstretched and moving with each dip and sway of the ship and the water she’s holding.

Instead, his eyes meet the oh so familiar green of his Captain’s. It is not Muldoon pinned to the ship’s wall and drowned because of it, it’s Flint staring steadily back at him, face edged in hard lines even in death. It reminds Silver of so many months ago, diving into impossibly clear blue water and hauling Flint’s still body all the way to the beach with him. Pressing on his chest until he started spitting up all the water he’d swallowed, and then backing off again.

Except no amount of pounding on Flint’s body will bring breath back in to that shell.

Silver’s mouth opens on a harsh, choking noise, even as his vision starts to swim. This isn’t how things happened, this isn’t how that night went, and his whole head feels like it’s spinning even as the image of Flint’s too-still body fades away. Doesn’t matter, he knows it’ll be imprinted forever in his mind. 

It’s that thought that sits heavy in his head as he slowly comes to consciousness. It’s the first thing that greets him, before he ever even opens his eyes, or turns his head. Just the sight of Flint, drowned, and the desperate certainty that he’ll never fucking forget it. Just like he’ll never forget the actual picture of Muldoon down in that tiny room, who actually died. A crewmember, a ship mate, a fucking _friend_ when those have been in such short supply all of Silver’s life.

“The fuck is wrong with you?”

Startled, Silver finally blinks his eyes open and finds that his lashes are thick with tears. They haven’t made their way down his face yet, but they’re still there hot and itchy and bothersome, and he realizes his breath has gone hoarse and ragged. The words ‘wait’ and ‘fuck’ feel like they’re etched into his throat.

When he turns his head, he can see Flint seated in his desk chair just across the room, turned to look back at him. It’s a familiar position, waking up in the captain’s cabin with those grand windows at his back and Flint’s harsh gaze at his front.

He’d already known Flint was alive, had known his dream was just a dream, but seeing Flint alive, and whole, breathing and with that slight expression of aggravation he usually has around Silver…it makes him want to fling his arms around the man or, even worse, crawl over there and lay his head in Flint’s lap in search of comfort. He tamps the urge down as ruthlessly as possible.

“’M fine,” he says instead, sitting up slowly before leaning his back against the windows. He doesn’t want to turn around see the endless ocean on the other side. Doesn’t want to acknowledge what they’d found out yesterday when they’d come out of that damn storm, all worse for the wear.

Flint’s gaze is assessing, curious. “Didn’t sound fine.”

Instantly, Silver feels his hackles rise. “Well, I am.” He doesn’t snap exactly, but his tone makes it clear he’s not inviting a conversation. Wrung out from the events of the past few days, and then that damn fucking dream, he doesn’t need anyone poking and prodding where he’s still raw and bloody.

But his captain just snorts disbelievingly and turns back to whatever charts or map he currently has spread on his desk, quill twirling idly between his thumb and forefinger.

For a long time they simply sit in silence, Flint engaged in his work, and Silver with his head tipped back against the warm glass as he tries to gather himself. He can’t go out on deck, amongst the men, when he feels like a stray word or hand could knock him over.

It’s broken when Flint says, without looking up at all, “You need to take off your boot and rest your leg today.”

Silver pulls his head up, pushes a stray lock of hair behind his ear. The quill is still spinning, Flint’s concentration apparently not broken in the least.

“Excuse me?”

That earns a faint head turn and a, “You heard me.”

Silence as Silver mulls that little order over. The ship’s doctor is always telling him he _should_ take the boot off and rest his leg, but he doesn’t have the authority to force Silver to do it. The only one who can really do that is the man sitting across the room, and Flint has never bothered with it before. He makes pointed comments sure, tells Silver he’ll never be able to sneak around again when his leg is hurting and the boot clops more loudly than usual with his limp. But he’s never done this.

“I have things to do,” Silver finally decides on saying, only for a lazy, “No,” to nearly cut off his words.

“We’re dead in the water,” Flint continues. “There’s nothing on deck that needs your immediate attention, so as your captain I’m telling you to take that damn boot off and rest. When was the last time you aired the wound out?”

“It’s not a wound, it’s healed!”

“That’s not what Howell says.”

“What, are you two conspiring against me?” Silver demands, accusing and harsh, and Flint turns to stare incredulously at him, quill dropping from his fingers, still and forgotten.

“If you mean are we trying to keep you alive? Yes.”

“Well I don’t need your help!” He means to jump to his feet, to stomp his way out of that damn cabin and out into the sunshine and still air, but his bad leg buckles under him the moment he puts any weight on it. A small cry of pain escapes his lips despite his best efforts, and he lays panting on the floor, leg practically on fire and more tears welling up in eyes.

The steady thump of boots against wood draws his attention, just in time for Flint to lean down and put rough, calloused hands under his arms and pull. Despite his pain, Silver feels rage and fear swamp his mind, and he thrashes against Flint’s hold.

“Put me down! Put me down, damnit, I don’t need your fucking help!”

 But his captain is oblivious to the words, calmly picking Silver up like he’s nothing more than a child, and placing him back in the window seat. When Silver has stopped shouting, is simply breathing heavily and glaring, Flint raises a single ginger eyebrow at him and sedately asks, “Are you done?”

“Don’t fucking touch me.”

That damn eyebrow only twitches further up. “Howell was right. You are being incredibly dense about this.”

“I’m not being anything,” Silver snaps, teeth bared in an unconscious mimicry of Flint’s own snarl. “Just leave me the hell alone.”

“Take the damn boot off and I will.”

“I don’t need you trying to take care of me! I get enough of that from the crew.”

Flint stands silently for a moment before cocking his head to the side almost curiously, though something in the twist of his lips speaks of a fond anger. “Is that what you think this is, me trying to take care of you?”

It feels like a trick question. So Silver doesn’t answer, just keeps his eyes narrowed dangerously until Flint snorts.

“Well, it’s not,” the captain says, making a dismissive motion with one hand. “It’s me trying to get you to take care of your own damn self. I’m not here to wipe your ass for you.”

“I do take care of myself,” Silver counters, only for Flint’s gaze to turn skeptical as he asks, “Again, when was the last time you took that boot off?”

He doesn’t have to think about it. When he’s at sea, he never takes it off because he has to be ready for anything, even when he’s asleep. “The last time I saw Howell.”

“And that was, what? Weeks ago?”

“Your point being?”

“My point being that never taking it off is bad enough, but you spent hours wading through seawater the other day. Did you even think to take it off and dry it at some point?”

Silver hadn’t, but that doesn’t really mean a lot right now. “It’s still none of your business.”

Flint’s lip curls up into a snarl, green eyes sparking with impatience. “Take the damn boot off Silver, that’s an order.”

Lips pursed defiantly, Silver gives a snide little, “Yes, captain,” that’s probably the brattiest thing he’s ever uttered in his life. He can’t bring himself to care, shoulders curled in on himself as he mentally curses Flint to hell and back. What right does he have? To try and tell Silver how he should live his own life, to stick his nose where it isn’t wanted.

Silver’s so busy fuming he misses when Flint goes back to his desk, but he’s snapped out of the thoughts when something small and solid lands next to him on the cushion. He glances down at the bottle and then back up at Flint, who is seated and whose back is turned, like he simply tossed the thing over his shoulder.

“It’s a salve,” the captain explains without prompting. “Howell made it for you.”

 _It’s a salve_ , Silver mouths to himself, nose scrunched up as he picks up the bottle and stares judgmentally at it.  Like the smooth, dark glass is the reason everyone has suddenly decided to treat him as some kind of invalid. How the fuck is he supposed to be quartermaster when his men are busy taking care of _him_ when they’ve got better things to be doing?

With the sigh of a man giving in, Silver drops the bottle and reaches for his leg. It’s still throbbing faintly, and he wonders at the state of it that it wouldn’t even hold his weight. When he manages to bend his knee and get the boot up in his lap, he can see that Flint was right; the leather is swollen and rough with seawater, and simply unbuckling the straps is difficult. That doesn’t even begin to describe how hard he has to pull on the damn thing to get it to slide off, and the whole while he grits his teeth against the pain, because it feels like having his skin sluiced off with a jagged knife.

He sits gasping faintly once it’s finally off, and automatically his gaze slides away from his leg, not wanting to see it. Instead he focuses on Flint’s back. The man is back to twirling his pen and doing whatever he was doing before, but there’s a faint tension along the line of his shoulders that wasn’t there before. Like he can hear Silver in pain, and is having to hold himself back from doing something.

Probably shouting ‘I told you so!’ Silver thinks uncharitably.

Eventually Silver is able to finally glance down at his leg, and he almost immediately wishes he hadn’t. The pain had faded a little, but from knee down had still throbbed and buzzed uncomfortably, even with the soothing feeling of cool air finally reaching the flesh. But the skin is rubbed bloody raw, open blisters in several places that sluggishly ooze a pale yellow pus. The place where the boot sits is aggravated and chafed, and the original wound from having his leg actually removed is angrily weeping, threatening to split open anew. He tightens his jaw against the sight of decay, and tries not to vomit, tries not to feel betrayed by his own body.

He must spend too long in silence, because Flint’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts as the captain swears loudly and enthusiastically. Those intelligent green eyes are fixed on Silver’s stump of a leg, and he’s striding across the space between them before Silver can tell him to stay away. Instead he simply scoots back in the window seat as far as he can manage, holding protective hands slightly above the bloody mess without actually touching it.

“Not a wound, huh?”

“Leave it!” Silver practically begs, but Flint grabs each of his wrists in a too-tight grip and pulls them away, staring down intently.

“Jesus,” he drawls, slow and appalled. “How the fuck have you been walking on this?”

Something hot like shame wells up in Silver’s chest, and he turns his head away, snapping an angry, “Just fine, thanks!” in his own defense.

“Do you really think I’d let any of my men serve, with a wound like this, much less you?”

“Much less you,” Silver parrots tonelessly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Rough fingers grab his chin and force his head to turn so that he’s meeting intense green eyes that bore into his own. “It means you’re one of the most important men on this ship, and that I’m not going to let you die from some infection just because you’re being a stubborn dumbass.”

Angry, scared, and in pain, Silver does the only thing he can think of. He tilts his chin defiantly and spits, “What does it even matter to you?”

The heated, rough kiss that’s pressed against his lips isn’t exactly surprising. Silver wishes he could say it was, but in reality he leans into it almost immediately and abortedly attempts to grab at Flint’s hair, only to remember he’d shaved it a while back. Damn, all those fantasies of ripping his stupid little ponytail out are ruined.

Flint’s lips are dry and hot against his own, moving against Silver’s with a type of angry precision but it ends just as quickly as it started as Flint tears himself away and practically stomps his way across the cabin. When he returns, it’s with a bowl of water and rag that he drops down into Silver’s lap with very little care.

“Clean yourself up,” is all he says.

Silver stares dumbly down at the water, trying to keep a smile off of his mouth and failing. He’d known they were circling something, had known he was pretty pissed about exactly how devoted he’d found himself becoming to Flint, but he hadn’t really thought either of them would ever really do anything about it. He couldn’t decide if he was glad to be proven wrong or not.

When he looks up again, he’s alone in the cabin. Trust Flint to run off when he doesn’t want to address something, the bastard. At least he left Silver’s boot and didn’t take off with that too like a complete and total prick.

Cleaning his leg is a rather long and painful process, but Silver manages. He’s learned by now to live with the pain, because he doesn’t want anyone else touching, wants the least amount of people to see it as possible, so he’s learned to do what he can by himself. Which, granted, is probably why it’s in such bad shape.

Surprisingly, Flint returns not long after Silver starts the arduous procedure, though the only thing he does is give Silver an approving nod and sit back down at his desk. Twenty minutes of teeth gritting and biting at his own hand to stop from crying out, Silver finally gives in.

He drops the rag back into the water, which has turned a murky sort of red-brown. “Alright,” he says with a sigh. “I give. Come help me with this.”

Flint turns in his chair, raises an eyebrow. “This coming from the man who has been biting heads off about not wanting help.”

Silver has the childish urge to stick his tongue out at the other man, but he curbs it. Barely. “It’s easier to bear pain given by someone else than it is to hurt myself. And if I’m going to actually clean it, I might as well do a good job, so quit being an ass and get over here.”

With a little smirk of victory, Flint does stand and come over. What Silver isn’t expecting is for the man to kneel in front of him, on his knees on the hard wooden floor as he takes the bowl from Silver’s lap and places it next to him. Surprisingly gentle, he pulls John’s leg off of his lap, one warm hand cupping the back of his knee to support it as he wrings the cloth out with his other hand. The first touch hurts, but it’s not accompanied by the same shaky worry that Silver’s hands had carried, scared of pressing too hard or rubbing the wrong way. Flint doesn’t have the same worries though he is careful with short, efficient strokes.

Silver lays his head back against the window and fits the meat of his palm between his teeth, biting down harshly whenever the pain gets to be too much. By the end he’s sweaty and slightly nauseas, but his leg is clean and even though the raw flesh stings like a blister popped too soon, it does feel better than it has in a long time. And that’s even before Flint opens the bottle of salve and starts spreading it with little repeating circles of his fingers. He almost moans at the feeling of sweet, cool relief, feels his shoulders sag and his eyes flutter shut even as he closes his lips against the sounds.

“If you weren’t being so pig-headed you wouldn’t be having these problems, you know. Just accept some fucking help every now and then.”

One blue pops open, watching Flint lazily as he peers up at Silver. He’s too relaxed and not-in-pain right now to get angry again, so he just sighs good naturedly. “So says the man who refuses to ever sit back and let his men do the dirty work for him.”

“That’s different,” Flint scoffs as he finds his feet, taking the dirty bowl of water with him. “And you know it.”

“I admit no such thing!” Silver calls joyfully, even as his captain leaves the room. Presumably to get rid of the bowl.

A moment later Flint is returning, but instead of sitting back down at his desk, he picks up the heavy tome that had been open on its surface and joins Silver at the window seat. The sun shines warmly down on them as Flint quietly resumes his reading, and Silver floats in the bliss that only comes when one is pulled out from under something dark and painful without ever truly realizing they were under it in the first place.

At some point he manages to fall asleep, and he wakes up to the distinct feeling of thick fingers running through his hair. He smiles, turns to get more comfortable in the position he’s found himself in with his head in Flint’s lap, and goes back to his nap.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk Silverflint to me on my [tumblr](http://scribespirare.tumblr.com/).


End file.
